Cage of Light
by androidilenya
Summary: During the transition to Gondolin, Aredhel finds she is not the only one with doubts.


**Written for Elleth at the 2013 Yule Fic exchange. Request: _I'd love a hurt/comfort fic exploring friendship among any of the Silmarillion ladies. If at all possible, a happy or at least hopeful ending would be fantastic._**

**And a thank you to Rhapsody for betaing.**

* * *

Gondolin could be stifling, at times, could feel more like a cage built of gilded steel than the haven her brother claimed it to be. And yet Aredhel had come here of her own free will, and stayed against her better judgement.

She had chosen quarters in the eastern wing of the royal palace that rose above the rest of the city, under the shadow of her brother's tower. Her window faced the sunrise, and the gaudy clouds that slashed their way across the sky to the east were all she could see over the looming mountains that encircled the city and the surrounding plains.

She tried to go riding down there, early on, in order to escape from the frantic bustle of an entire city settling in. (The early days in Gondolin reminded her too much of the periodic camps of the trek across the Helcaraxë, the struggle to bring an entire host to a halt and into shelter before the howling winds drove them apart, and there were some things she would rather forget.) The ride didn't help, not in the slightest––there was nowhere near enough room for her to ride far enough or fast enough for the wind of her passage to tear the restless anxiety from her mind. She found herself longing for the wider plains of her cousins' lands to the east, or even the marches of Linaewen––she could ride a day's journey there, at least, without running into a mountain.

She returned to her room in a high temper, dark hair slipping free of the braid she had tied it back in, and when she saw Turgon's guards scrambling to get out of her way she felt a flash of furious pleasure––___yes, move before I hurl my saddle at you._

One of the servants tried to make eye contact with her, offering her a hesitant smile. "Is there aught I can do for you, Lady Aredhel?"

"You may leave me ___alone_," she snarled, and almost immediately felt bad, but her feet carried her up the stairs before she could apologize.

The helpless, caged feeling did not subside by the time she reached her room, but some of the rage did. She left her grey cloak in a heap on the floor and fell backwards onto her bed, arms outstretched and eyes fixed on the rafters that stretched across the ceiling above. They looked newly cut; this must have been one of the last places Turgon and his builders had worked on before initiating the exodus.

And this ___place,_ this accursed ___city––_

She could almost hear her brother's voice, infuriatingly patient––___give it time, Ireth, you will grow to love it soon enough._

___Else why would I have come here?_ she added to that, feeling her mouth twist bitterly––and she did not ___know_, could not have explained herself if someone had asked her what drove her to agree to come here, stay for the rest of her life––

And she had agreed to come here. Turgon did not uproot his sister without asking her permission first; he had at least had the grace to approach her with his plans––years and years after it was too late to dissuade him, of course, and mere weeks before the move was scheduled, but at least he had ___asked_.

___It will be a safe place._ Turgon had looked so stubbornly proud as he threw the map down on her desk back in Vinyamar, and as she had leaned over it she had realized that its edges were ragged and yellowing, layers of different colored ink overlayed through the years in various hands. Turgon must have begun planning this years ago, must have labored over it for a long time.

___Is this where you've been disappearing to all these years?_ she had asked lightly, tapping the diagram with one finger just to see her brother stiffen, hands twitching as though he longed to yank it from her hands, protect it from her clumsy grasp. He had always been that way, even when they were both children––always so fiercely protective of his books and papers.

He had nodded, carefully sliding the map out from under her hand. ___It is finished. I have named it _Onolindë___, for the fountains which spring from the hill._ There was a thrum of nervous energy under his words, and when she looked up and met his eyes she caught the flash of uncertainty.

___And why do you tell me this, if it is such a secret?_ She grinned at him, hoping to get that little half-smile out of him, but he was stubbornly solemn. ___Seems to defeat the purpose of having a _hidden___city––_

___I want you to come with me, Ireth,_ Turgon had interrupted, quiet words overriding hers, and she had frozen with her mouth half-open.

___It will be far safer than any other place in Beleriand,_ he had insisted, taking advantage of her momentary silence. ___Safer than Nevrast, safer than Hithlum, far more secure than the lands to the east––_he would not say their cousins' names, had made a point of refusing to since the fire on the horizon, all those years ago. ___If and _when___Morgoth strikes again––_

_––____we will defeat him, as we already have._ She folded her arms, frowning at him. ___Or have you forgotten how throughly Atar and Nelyafinwë destroyed his forces? And not another true assault has come from Angband for nigh on sixty years––_

___He will attack again,_ Turgon had snapped, and his determination to convince her was such that he brushed past her utterance of a Fëanorian's name as though he had not even noticed. ___Do you think him likely to remain in the fortress of his for all eternity, or are you so naïve as to think that the murderer of our grandfather will extend a hand of _peace___to us?_

She had bristled at that, shooting a cold glance at him. ___I am no fool._

___Then surely you _see,___Ireth––_He had planted both hands on her desk and leaned over it to look her squarely in the eye, dark hair falling in front of his face. ___He will come again with greater force than before and catch at unawares, secure in our own prowess. He _knows___our weakness now, and will blow through the defense at the eastern foothills and sweep down the pass of Sirion and destroy everything we have built!_

The passion in his voice startled her into silence for a moment. She recovered himself, staring at Turgon's wide eyes and heaving chest––she had rarely seen him lose control like this––and then, trying to sound as reasonable as she could (but Fingon was better than her at that, always had been, and she wished he was here as never before): ___Have you talked to Atar about this, Turvo?_

___It would be no use._ Turgon collapsed back into a nearby chair, running a hand through his hair. He looked inexpressibly weary, then, and Aredhel found herself searching for the bright-eyed, solemn brother that had carried her on his shoulders, read to her from his great, heavy books. ___Even if I thought he would listen, it would do no good. We cannot _prepare___for something like that, and Morgoth has all the time in the world to seek a way past our defenses. We do not have the strength to assault Angband, we never have, though that is the only way we could possibly win._

___And hence the secret city, I suppose?_ She knew he spoke the truth––he was not the only one capable of looking at a map. Yet––and she wasn't about to bring this up with him, not right now, but––surely the combined power of the House of Finwë could withstand anything the enemy could throw at them?

___One last bastion of Noldor strength._ There was a strange, commanding light in the blue-grey eyes that had been Anairë's.___One last haven of light and safety in the sea of darkness that will inevitably swallow us all. That is what this will be, Ireth, the future of our people._

And then he had reached across the table and taken her hands, grasping them with an overly cautious gentleness that was completely at odds with his desperate words. She felt a sudden rush of affection for her brother.

___Ireth––_

___I'll come._ She smiled at him, and his eyes widened with surprised elation. ___You'll need someone to help run things, after all, because Eru knows that _you're___the last person I'd expect to run a kingdom._

The corners of his mouth had twitched upwards at the teasing note in her voice. ___Thank you, Ireth,_ he whispered with real gratitude, and she squeezed his hands tight before standing and making her way to the doorway, wondering what one packed when one was moving to a secret city. Everything, she supposed.

___I expect you to take care of all the paperwork, of course_, she had called back over her shoulder. ___And the royal meetings, too––but I'll be wanting a crown, you hear?_

___Anything, Ireth,_ Turgon had said, a note of something almost like mirth entering his voice, and she had left smiling.

He had told them later that this was a final move, that no one could leave once they had entered. Aredhel supposed that she should not have been so surprised––a hidden city was no use if the people within were allowed to come and go freely. Yet thus far, Gondolin had felt less like an island of light and more like a cage lined with jewels and gold as a thin veil to disguise its true purpose.

Well. She would give it time. She had gotten used to this new country quickly enough; she could bear this city as well. And it was there was hardly any shortage of tasks for the King's sister.

As if summoned by her thoughts, there was a sharp knock at her door. She sat up, adjusting the filmy sleeve of her dress that had slipped down over her shoulder, exposing a swath of pale skin, and called, "Come in!"

The door creaked open to reveal the smiling face of one of Turgon's guards––Anamirë, her eyes bright with mirth. "Milady."

"Oh. It's you," Aredhel said with mock disappointment, standing and stretching with exaggerated laziness. She yawned, then added, "Come to bother me about someone's ___gardening_ again, or do you have real work for me today?"

"Agricultural planning ___is_ real work, you know," Anamirë replied, raising an eyebrow. "But I think Lord Turgon had something else in mind." She stepped fully into the room, armor clanking with her movement, and Aredhel had to suppress a snort of derision––Turgon still insisted that the guards ___in his tower_ wear full armor even while running messages for him, as though Morgoth planned to materialize outside his bedroom and slaughter them all.

___By Oromë's spear, the Enemy couldn't even get past the mountains without blasting them aside––which, incidentally, would give even your palace guards more than enough time to get dressed, Turvo._

Anamirë must have guessed the direction of her thoughts, because she smiled and said, "If you also wish to complain about our armor during your meeting with Turgon, be my guest. But I do not think that either that or your reluctance to assist in the agricultural setup will avail you much when it comes to our good king and his plans."

"Well, mayhaps he can take those ___plans_ and shove them up his––" She stopped, made a noise of frustration at the back of her throat. Anamirë only looked more amused––she knew much of Aredhel, perhaps more than a mere guard had a right to. They been good friends for a time in Valinor after Aredhel came of age, before Anamirë's duties as a servant of Fingolfin's household had called her up to Aredhel's father's court, farther from the house that Aredhel had lived in since she had left her father's house (a tidy affair of white stone, with a slate roof––sensible and nowhere near as showy as Fingolfin's___fortress_ of a home). Fate had thrown them back together in the form of a drawn sword and sudden darkness, and now here they were in her brother's city, each as trapped by her own choice as the other.

"So my brother deigns to speak to me now, does he?" Aredhel strode to her closet, idly undoing the laces on her outer robe––it would not do to appear before Turgon in these riding-stained clothes. At the very least, she would change the top layer.

"The king seemed quite concerned about something," Anamirë volunteered, and Aredhel shot her an amused glance as she shrugged on a silver robe.

"When is he not, hm?" She folded her arms. "Lead on, Anamirë. I believe I am now presentable."

"You always are, milady." The guard turned and swept from the room. Aredhel followed, chuckling.

* * *

"So, brother dearest, what task is so incredibly important that you called me all the way up ___here_ for it?" Aredhel leaned out the tower window, breathing deeply of the cool air. Evening was falling, a blue dusk cast over the city below. From up here, the people moving in the streets looked small enough to crush with her little finger.

Behind her, Turgon shuffled his papers into a neat stack, the rasping of parchment on parchment breaking the stillness of his tower study. She would not have expected him to choose a location like this for his work area––the walls were not straight, after all (it being a ___circular_ tower, after all), and she would have thought that the inability to fit normal furniture against curved walls would drive Turgon mad. Still, he seemed to have adjusted nicely; the room was already as cluttered as his study back at Vinyamar had been.

"How has the agricultural planning been going?" he asked, and she stifled a snort at how transparently he was trying to stall for time before working his way to whatever point he had in mind.

"As I'm sure most anyone can tell you, no one has reached any sort of agreement as to how it should work out, nearly everyone is unhappy, and we are going forward with our original plan regardless."

If she hadn't turned then, she might have missed the smile that flickered across Turgon's face just then. "A typical day in my court, then."

"Mm. Something like that." She crossed back to his desk and leaned against it, frowning at one of the diagrams pinned to the walls. "You have mines?"

"There are diggings planned, later, once we've settled in. Rog's people have already begun to clamor for materials to work with. The mountains probably have ores and––such things." Turgon tapped his quill against the desk, frowning. "How do the people expect me to have a midsummer festival planned ___already_, when we have only just begun to settle in?" he muttered under his breath, a question clearly meant for himself.

"You'll figure something out." Aredhel picked up a glass paperweight and turned it over and over in her hands, watching the light flash from the inlayed blue swirls. "So, Turvo, I know you didn't call me up here to ask after a project that you could just as easily watch over from your little window up here."

"Perhaps I wanted to ask after my little sister's health."

"Perhaps you should have done that a week ago and not left it so late," she snapped, without thinking, and heard him stiffen behind her.

"Ireth, if you have had any trouble you should have come straight to me––"

"Oh, because you'd ___care_ so much, wouldn't you." She set the paperweight down sharply and hopped down from the desk, turning to face him. "I've had half a mind to up and ___leave_ this city, you know––"

"You cannot leave now," Turgon replied, infuriatingly calm. "The entrance has been secured, and the secret will be safe as long as none leave."

___Nothing can stay hidden forever, perhaps you would have done better to sit alone on your throne and rule an empty city if you truly wanted to be safe––_

She took a deep breath, let it out in a hiss of frustration. "Fine. ___Fine_. That's not what you called me here to discuss, so get to the point."

He set his quill aside and folded his hands, looking up at her. "Have you seen Itarillë lately?"

"I––no, I haven't." Which was odd, now that she thought about it. Idril didn't tend to be the type to isolate herself from others; she would have expected her to be in the midst of all the bustle of moving in.

"She's been staying away from the tower, sleeping in empty dwellings or with whoever will take her in among the lower houses––she says she's helping the people acclimate, but I think she's avoiding me."

For a moment, she was tempted to laugh––typical of Turgon, who tended to be the very definition of an overprotective father (and who would not be, after what had happened to him?), to interpret his daughter's lack of communication as a personal offense. And yet there was real worry in his eyes, and she remembered the way Idril had looked at her as they were leaving, the last time she had seen her––pale and determined and perhaps a little terrified, hiding the fact she might have been as reluctant to enter this hidden city as Aredhel herself.

The laughter died in her throat.

"Has she said anything else?" There had been times, on the Ice, after (such a simple word, ___after_, and so much weight under it) when she had looked at Idril and seen the cracking in her eyes, the fragmented look of a lost, broken thing. Aredhel had been the one to hold her, put her back together as best she could, and if there were still cracks visible in Turgon then it would be no surprise that Idril had the same, though she was better at hiding them––

Turgon shook his head. "She listens to you. I fear... I fear she wishes to speak to me least of all." He met her eyes, a startling vulnerability in his face. "Was this––was this a mistake, Ireth?"

___You ask that for your daughter's sake, and not for the sake of all the others you dragged here after you––_She swallowed her rising anger. "If it was, then it is one far past mending," she replied cooly. "Do you want me to speak to her, is that it?"

He nodded. "I––please, Ireth."

"Very well." She considered wrapping him in her arms (because he looked as close to vibrating apart as he ever had, bare and vulnerable and ___scared_ at the prospect of driving away the only one he had left). He stood before she could make a move, crossing to the window and peering out at the city below.

"It is beautiful, for all that everyone in it hates it," he mused, thoughtful. "And yet I love it, Ireth, is that so odd?"

She shook her head, knowing he could not see her. "Not so odd for you, Turvo." And then, forcing it out, because she knew it to be true: "The people will grow to love it in the end, you know."

"I hope so," he said heavily. "I truly hope so, Ireth."

* * *

Finding Idril was easy. Aredhel knew her well enough to predict with reasonable accuracy which spots the girl (___girl no longer_, she reminded herself, but sometimes she had trouble remembering that) would gravitate towards. She preferred sunlight, for one, and when she was upset she avoided large groups of people.

Based on her hazy memories of the one glimpse she had gotten of Turgon's map of the city and the general density of people wandering the streets in the vicinity of open spaces, she managed to wander into a garden that had clearly not been worked on yet. There was a large stretch of bare dirt, ringed with a neatly stacked wall of unshaped stones the same color as the walls that surrounded it, and from the rich black loam grew tangles of ivy that were already sending thin green tendrils into the gaps between the stones. Under skilled hands, this garden might blossom forth with just as much beauty as any back in Vinyamar, but for now there were only weeds and dirt. Sunlight slanted down into the center of the garden, illuminating the slight figure perched amid the ivy, her back to the narrow alleyway that led into the garden.

"I thought I'd find you here." Aredhel pushed aside a strand of ivy and stepped into the ring of stones, feet sinking into the soft dirt.

Idril glanced up at her, then returned to her previous occupation––twining an ivy stem around her hand, the green leaves pulled tighter each time it went around.

"Your father was wondering where you disappeared to," she continued, sitting down next to her niece and leaning back, closing her eyes to feel the sunlight strike her face. "He was starting to worry."

"He does that," Idril mumbled, and there was a sharp noise as she tore the strand of ivy free.

"Hm. Well, you can't really blame him for that, can you?" Aredhel opened her eyes. Idril was frowning, brows drawn down over her Vanyar-blue eyes (and who, Aredhel thought, might Turgon think of when he looked into those eyes––and what might Idril think of carrying a ghost in her very face, for that matter?).

She wouldn't ask ___where have you been_, because it was clear enough where she was, and it was hardly as though there was anywhere else for her to be.

"What do you think of Onolindë?" she asked, instead, and Idril's lips twisted in something that could not quite be called a smile.

"That's my father's name for it, but there are some who have already shortened like to do that; it makes it easier to speak of it when there aren't so many ___syllables_."

"There is a certain music in those sounds, of course," Aredhel mused, and Idril flashed her another glance.

"Are you Uncle Findaráto, now, to speak of music? I had no idea you had such an interest in those things, Aredhel." She shrugged, tearing a leaf into shreds with quick, abrupt movements of her hands. "As for me, ___Gondolin_ will work as well as any other name."

Aredhel let her sit in silence for a few seconds, knowing that whatever was on her mind would come out soon enough. Idril had never been too adept at hiding her emotions; it was part of what would make her such a good queen someday. (And also part of what would make it so hard for her to act as such––the world worked that way, sometimes).

She counted breaths––___three, four, five_––and then Idril turned to her with that deep hurt in her face that Aredhel had not seen for some time, had thought was buried under better memories long ago.

"Aredhel, this city––do you think my mother would have been content here?"

And there it was, the ghost that lurked under every word Turgon and Idril both had spoken today––and the Valar forgive her, but even ___Aredhel_ sometimes looked at Idril and nearly called her by another name.

"I do not think it matters what Elenwë would have felt," Aredhel replied quietly. "Are ___you_ content here, Itaril?"

Her niece's face twisted with something halfway between grief and confusion. "I don't know what I'm ___supposed_––"

"There is no ___supposed to_, you know." And that was a lie, and they both knew that. There was always an obligation, under it all––to Turgon, to the people, to those who had passed before.

(Idril's small, pale hand tugging at her, ___Tell me it's a dream, Aredhel, tell me she isn't gone––_)

"There ___is_." Idril stood, fists clenched so tight they trembled. "If I knew what my mother would have felt, then I know what ___I_should give to my father, because that's what he ___wants_, isn't it, he wants me to make it worth losing her by being––" Her voice broke, and Aredhel wondered if she even knew what came after that.

"Itaril––" Aredhel stood, laying a hand on her niece's arm. Idril shrugged it off, swiping a hand across her eyes furiously.

"She wasn't supposed to die, she ___wasn't_, so why is she the one––and ___I_ shouldn't be––"

Aredhel would not say ___stop it_, because the sooner Idril rid herself of this poison, the better. Yet she hated to see her like this, miserable and angry and ___afraid_, because if Elenwë wasn't the one who was supposed to die, and Idril was the one who had survived, then what did that mean?

___Oh, Itaril, have you been holding this all along?_

Idril dug her toe into the dirt, kicking up dust and keeping her eyes on the ground. "I thought Atar would be right, I thought that moving here would make it better––but it's not, is it? And he's wrong about it being ___safe_, there's nowhere that's really safe here." She smiled, then, bitter and angry. "That's why we came here. Because it was ___too_ safe for too ___long_ in Valinor, right? And we can fight darkness on its own territory, here, and––and why were we so ___arrogant_ as to think that we would succeed at that?" She looked up at Aredhel, searching for answers, and Aredhel shook her head.

"Better to fight the Enemy head-on than allow him to sit on his throne and rule a land of darkness uncontested."

"But that's not what––we came here to ___fight_, Aredhel, we came here to ___live_, and all Atar wants to do now is hide behind his mountains and build a city of light and ___stay here_ until he forgets that there even is a darkness waiting outside." Idril was shaking, hands knotted around the cloth of her dress, and Aredhel was almost afraid to reach out for her again lest she fly apart, fragmented.

"I cannot say that I agree with him," she found herself saying, "but this city will stand for a long time, and surely something good will come of it." This was not ___foresight_, not like Finrod might have said, more––truth, simple and clear.

"It will fall, in the end, you know. Everything falls." Idril frowned. "And I would rather die fighting outside than trapped in a cage of light. Because they ___will_ find us, won't they?"

"Eventually, perhaps." Aredhel glanced at the sky, the hazy blue of afternoon creeping in over the tops of the buildings. "That is the flaw of a hidden city, after all––that what is hidden is always meant to be found. Perhaps it is for us to make it worth it for as long as it lasts." She glanced at Idril. "It doesn't matter, really, what was sacrificed to reach this point, only what we do from here. Don't you think?"

When she reached out for Idril this time, her niece turned and buried her face in Aredhel's shoulder, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "I don't like it here," she said into Aredhel, hands reaching up and fastening onto her sleeves.

"Neither do I." ___But you were always better at facing your fears than I was, Itarillë. _"The city needs us both, though, for a time. And after––maybe the people will look to you someday."

"I don't want that responsibility," Idril said heavily, and Aredhel sighed.

"Few do, until they have it." She took Idril's hand and pulled away; she was not surprised to see that Idril's eyes were dry. "Come. We will bring this city the light it will need to last these years in hiding."

They left the garden together, footprints fading in the soft dirt. Behind them, the last of the sunlight struck the twisted ivy, lining the edges of the green leaves with gold. Idril did not let go of Aredhel's hand until they reached the street at the end of the alley, the white stone shining in the light of the dying sun.

"If you ever need to talk, again," Aredhel started to say, words halting and suddenly unsure, but Idril squeezed her hand once and let go with a small, sad smile.

"I think I can manage on my own, from now on." She hesitated, then wrapped her arms around her aunt in a brief, desperate hug. "But thank you." ___For everything_, her tone said, and Aredhel smiled and thought that perhaps this city would not be completely worthless after all.


End file.
